CHAPTER 1
When it began I do not know, nor in what land, for it was in a time before the names began.
The legend is that I myself was the first to understand. I, and the wise Adapa, although what name was his at that time I do not know. He was the second.
It began, we believe, with the memory of a spring.
Upon a certain day, in a time when all men wandered in search of game and gathered nuts, roots, and berries as they traveled, and when men had not yet learned to plant seeds, my people had come to an ending.
There had been a great dying of plants and animals; the sun shone hot each day and the clouds did not gather, nor did the rain fall. Our band had taken up our few things and wandered in search of food, in search of water, and we had found nothing but more sun, more dust, more pools of cracked mud.
The last of our food was gone, and only a little water remained and many had come to sit and wait for death.
They said, “Why must we struggle when it is only to die? There is no more grass, and there is no more water. The time has come for dying.”
Then I stood and pointed. “Yonder where lie the blue hills there is water, and there will be food.”
My people stared at me, their eyes wide with hunger and suffering, their bodies thin and worn. Their will had fled from them and all they wished was to lie still.
“Hills? Where are these hills of which you speak? We see no hills.”
“Yonder,” I said, “another day only.”
They did not, they could not, believe, but one man looked at me, with understanding upon him, and said, “This man has become the voice of a god—follow him.”
They stared at him, and then at me, and they laughed, a terrible laughing from raw, parched throats. “He? We have known him from birth. What manner of foolishness is this?
“He is young and we have watched him grow. He is not the voice of any god. He is no more than any of us.”
“One more day of walking,” I said, “just one more day. A green valley lies there with a stream that is cold and swift. Wild sheep are there, sheep that have seen no man, and wild cattle as well.”
“How is it that you say this? Have you looked into the smoke?”
“It is there. Are you children that you lie down to die when water is near? Lie then, if you wish. I shall go on, and tomorrow I shall drink deep of the cold, cold water.”
Taking up my spear and sling, I started forward, although my feet were sore from wandering, and my muscles from struggling on.
And they followed….
The sun rose higher but we plodded on. The heat grew great and there was no green…only the vast sky, only the long grass bending before the wind.
They stumbled often, and sometimes fell, but they arose again and continued, no longer thinking, no longer planning, only putting one foot before the other in a kind of stupor, moving through the trembling air, their throats parched, their tongues drying within their mouths.
And suddenly there was a low purple line across the horizon, which only a few noticed, and of which they did not speak, thinking it born only of their desires, but after a while it grew larger, and they began to see these were mountains indeed, with peaks and shoulders and great ridges.
Now their steps quickened, and I, who had known, walked before them, pointing my way with my toes toward the distant loom of one opening jaw of hills.
No one stumbled now. There was a breeze from off the hills, a hint of coolness. Day began to wane and the glare of the sun departed. Still we marched, and then we could see trees, though only a scattered few.
“There is water?”
“There will be water. There will be much water,” I said, “and there for a long time we will stay.”
Into the darkening canyon we walked, and into a broad open valley within the mountains, and they asked me, “Where is the water?”
“It is there,” I said, pointing, “beyond those trees.” And they ran ahead, and there were cries, and the others ran, and there was a stream, running cold and clear, and they drank the water, and then drank again.
A wild ox came down from the hills and stared at us, head up, nostrils distended.
Choosing a rock I put it in my sling, and I swung a mighty blow and the rock flew, striking the ox between the eyes.
He dropped, and running forward I finished him with a spear thrust. And after their thirst was quenched they came to cut up the meat, and to eat it. Some was eaten raw from hunger, and some was roasted above the fire.
The old man came to me, he who had said I had become the voice of a god, and he said, “You knew.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“How did you know?”
I thought of that and said, “I remembered.”
“Do not tell them so. Tell them you saw it in the smoke.”
“You wish me to lie?”
“Only to let them believe. How, they will say, could he remember? Have we ever seen this place? Have we ever come so far? And has he not grown up among us? What could he remember that we could not?”
“I saw nothing. I simply knew.”
“Perhaps that is the way of it,” he said. “I think we must be careful, you and I. People do not always like those who are wiser than they; they do not like to believe that some know and others do not.”
Something within told me this was wise, so when Pied Bull said, “How did you know?” I shrugged and said, “I did not know. It was a lucky guess.”
Pleased, Pied Bull said, “I thought so,” and he went to tell the others.
Pied Bull aspired to be our chieftain, and was an arrogant man, a strong warrior but a man of small judgment and much impressed with himself. He was among them now, making little of my leadership in this case.
“It is well,” the old man said. “Let them not know too much.”
His eyes turned to mine. “This has happened before? I have seen it.”
My reply was guarded. “Who knows?”
“Even as a child, you hunted with a warrior’s skill, and when you looked for berries, you knew where to look.”
“It was my good fortune,” I said.
“You remembered,” he replied, “just as you remembered this place. You have been here before.”
“That cannot be.” I hesitated, then said, “You know my life. None of us have ever been so far.”
He waited for a while and then said, “Sleep well tonight, but unless I am mistaken in the night you will remember other things. You are one of Them.”
“Them?”
“Those who remember,” he said. “Once when I was very young the shaman told me there are some who remember, and to be alert for them.”
“And you think I am one?”
“I know it. I have known it these ten years.”
“Long ago I might have heard this place spoken of, in a time when I do not remember. Perhaps some hunter…some visitor to our camps…”
“Perhaps.” He got to his feet. “Eat,” he said, “and rest. We will talk of this again.”
Eat, I did, but no rest came to me. Warily, I let my eyes look about. Did I know this place? Was there more that I could remember? I wiped the grease from my hands upon the grass and went to the stream to drink again.
I drank, then took from my feet the sandals I wore, and I bathed my feet in the cold water.
Hot water, I thought, might be better. Yet who had ever heard of heating water for the feet? I had better not think of that or they would know me for a fool.
When I had rested a little, my back against a tree, I became restless to walk about. Taking up my spear and sling I walked away among the trees, and then stopped where I could look up at the walls of the canyon.
It was a wide canyon with meadows and trees, the stream offering water. We would stay in this place, for there seemed to be game. Everywhere I saw the tracks of animals, but none of men.
And then my feet found a path.
It was a hidden way, a winding way among rocks and old,
old trees. How I came upon it I do not know, but suddenly it was there and my feet were walking it as if…as if they knew.
The path led along one wall of the canyon but close to the foot of the cliff, and it was a good way, a very good way where one could come and go and be unseen from the valley below. Then, I stopped.
Someone watched me.
Turning from the path…a path that left nothing for the eyes to see except at great intervals when there seemed to be places a little worn…I went into the trees. Suddenly I saw Pied Bull.
“Where do you go?” He peered at me, his small eyes prying and cunning. I shrugged my shoulders. “I look for the droppings of game. I do not know if there are deer, or more of the big oxen.”
“You are a fool,” he said contemptuously. “There are droppings everywhere. I have seen them. And there are tracks. This is a good place.”
“Well,” I said, “you are a great hunter. You would know best.”
He looked about, and his curiosity satisfied, he went away. He had not seen the path.
Yet…had I really seen it? Or did I see it because I knew it was there?
The way grew steeper; it wound around among great fallen slabs of rock, then up a narrower canyon where the sun did not shine. Now I was far from our place beside the stream, and I was alone.
What if there were men here? I could be attacked and killed, and then they would come quietly upon my people and kill all of them, for we were few, only sixteen men, twenty women, and the children. It was a small tribe, for we had lost many through war and hunger.
I paused. There in the sand was a spear-head.
I knelt to examine it. It was very small, very neatly done. The flakes of stone struck from it were done with great skill, nothing like our own clumsy spear-heads. But such a spear must have been used by very tiny men….It was like nothing I had seen.
Straightening up, I looked all about me. I was in a shadowed place, a spirit-place. The canyon walls towered above me, and somewhere I could faintly hear the trickle of water.
I knew this place.
I knew this place well. And this chipped point of stone I held in my hand was not a spear-head. It was another sort of thing…something for which I had no name.
Yet now, suddenly, I knew where to go, and I ran on, swiftly, along the trail…and stopped.
Cut into the sandstone were steps leading steeply upward. Steps leading to what?
They were much worn, old; many rains and winds had beaten upon them. I started up.
Fear kept me from looking down. I climbed, across a shoulder of the rock and into a crevice, a split in the rock where the steps were natural and easy and it was wide enough for only one man at a time. I went swiftly up to a wide ledge.
I stopped.
Before me was something I had never seen before. Something…Yet, had I not seen this?
Stones fitted together to make a wall, an opening in the wall for air. I walked slowly forward. Past the corner there was a door.
I stepped inside, my spear poised.
It was shadowed and still, but upon the floor lay the skeleton of a man. The bony hand held a knife, a strong thin blade of chipped stone.
I sat down and looked upon the man long dead. I took the knife from the skeleton fingers. It was finely done, much better than my own.
The room was bare. The floor was of neatly fitted stones, upon one side a wooden seat. I looked at it, studied it, then stood up.
The dead man had been killed, and he looked to have fallen while running. Bending over him I saw something else. On the floor beneath him, under his ribs, was another of those small spear-heads.
Looking at it, I scowled. There was something about it that I should know, but did not know. Something I should have…remembered?
There was another door. The spear in my hand, the newfound knife held low in my other hand, I went through that door. A long room…a shadowed room.
Empty.
Crossing it with running steps I went into the room beyond. Smaller, almost square except for a sort of closet in one corner, a closet or space but with no door. The door might have been of wood, and burned. Peering closer I could see the frame of the door was charred as from fire. At the opening I stood peering into the alcove.
There was nothing there, yet there should have been.
From room to room I went. Some were in ruins, roofs or walls fallen in, a few more scattered bones, signs of fire. There had been a fierce fight here. At one place the center of the floor had ashes and the marks of burning as if something had been piled there and set afire.
For a moment I felt a chill of fear at the sight of that fire, but I did not know why it should so affect me.
I went out again into the air and looked around. The place where I stood should have been perfect for defense, and it needed only one or two men to protect it from invasion. Yet it had been attacked and its people destroyed. How, I could not guess.
It was late, and I knew I should go back.
But I was hesitant to leave. I looked all about me, disturbed by thoughts whose origin I could not guess. Somehow I believed I should have found something here, that I had been guided to this place by some strange influence, perhaps something from within myself.
In the dim light I went down the steps in the stone, then turned back toward our camp.
Emerging from the narrow canyon into the wider, I paused. The valley fell away before me with only the slightest of grades, and leaving out the trees the land was flat. I looked at it, and something nudged hard at my consciousness….Why should it impress me so?
At the camp the fires were burning small, our place was hidden as well as might be, and our people were eating again, restoring their strength against the days to come.
The old man looked up at me, and in his eyes there was a question. But also upon me were the eyes of Pied Bull, the one who did not like me.
Did I like him? I thought of that and decided he did not matter to me. I had no feelings of liking or disliking, only of wariness. The man was too curious, too envious, and was dangerous because of his jealousy of me.
“You bring no game,” Pied Bull said.
“I did not look for game,” I said. “I looked for others, and there are no others. I think this is a good place in which to stay.”
He shrugged. “There is game. The women have found roots. We can stay for a while.”
Something stirred within me, and there lay before my eyes the wide valley, the almost level fields with grade enough for water to flow.
“We would do well,” I said, “to move no more. This is a good place to stay.”
Pied Bull looked his disgust. “And when the game is gone? And we have eaten the roots and fruit?”
“Where these roots grow, and these seeds, more will grow. We will plant seeds and they will grow for us.”
“Plant? What is plant?” The woman who spoke was Wolf Boy’s woman. She was quick and sure in her movements, one of the best tanners of skins, one of the quickest to find the food we gathered. Her name was Moon Daughter.
There was a knowledge within me I dared not tell, yet there was a logic she would grasp.
“We have seen where seeds fell upon the ground, and where seeds have spilled when we were eating, and later when we came again the seeds had grown to plants.
“Why only gather what we find? Why not open the ground and spill the seeds into it, then close the ground over the seeds and when they grow, take what we need? We can eat some, the rest we can store in dry caves. Then we need move no more.”
“It is foolish,” Pied Bull said. “How do you know the seeds will grow? And can you grow meat?”
“We can,” I said quietly. “Do you remember the baby deer Moon Daughter’s child kept? Why can we not keep a dozen such, or many more? Let the children guard them, and when they grow we can eat them as we need, and need no longer trust only to the hunt.”
The old man who was my friend spoke quietly. “You speak wisely, my son. It is good, w
hat you say. And it can be done.”
“It is foolish,” Pied Bull said irritably.
“No. It is good,” Moon Daughter said.
Our chief, who was very old, sat quietly and listened. I had noticed this of him, that he let much talk go by before he spoke, and he listened well and then said what it seemed most of the people wished, or perhaps what he suspected they wished even when they had not spoken.
“We can stay here for a time. There is game. There is food. We have seen no signs of enemies. Our dry time has been bad, and we have suffered. Now we will rest, and we will grow strong again.”
“And we will plant,” I said. “All who wish to plant with me shall meet when the day comes at the meadow’s edge, each with a sharp stick.”
When they had scattered to their beds the old chief remained. He looked at me, his eyes old and wise and hard with thought. “Is it that you would take from me that which is mine? I am the chief.”
“You are the chief. I speak only to help. To come here was hard. The way was long, and the land was dead and without water. Now we are here. Perhaps there is no one here. Perhaps no one has been here for a long time. Why should we move from a land of plenty?”
The old one, my friend, had come up to us. “Heed him,” he advised. “Your troubles will be less.”
The chief scowled, staring off down the canyon. “I am tired,” he admitted. “We came far, and we are a small clan. Perhaps no one has ever crossed that waste before.”
“Perhaps not,” I suggested, but I was remembering the houses of stone. “Or if so, not for a long time.”
“We will stay,” the chief said, “while there is food. You may do what you will with your seeds.”
CHAPTER 2
When morning came twenty-one people came to the meadow, men, women and children. Each brought a sharp stick.
The day before walking through the canyon I had come upon a wide place where grew a sort of grass that had many small seeds. As I walked through the grass the seeds fell from the grass, striking the ground with a sound like rain.
With Wolf Boy, Moon Daughter, and two of their young ones we had returned and in the evening had filled baskets with the seeds. Now we gave some to each and they walked in a wide-spaced rank down the meadow, making a hole with a sharp stick at each step. Four times each of us walked the field’s length dropping the seeds, and then we returned to camp.
Volume 1: Unfinished Manuscripts, Mysterious Stories, and Lost Notes from One of the World's Most Popular Novelists Page 41
